


stuck with you

by heliosbaby



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Angst, Consensual Underage Sex, Fluff, Hurt, M/M, Nostalgia, Slice of Life, Underage - Freeform, set in the early 2000s, this is so soft i promise, ushioi - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:01:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24839605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heliosbaby/pseuds/heliosbaby
Summary: in which oikawa has a fight with his parents and means to stay the night at his best friend’s house, but iwaizumi isn’t home and it’s only his older brother, wakatoshi, there...
Relationships: Oikawa Tooru & Ushijima Wakatoshi
Kudos: 11





	1. i want to tell the stars to stop, please

**Author's Note:**

> listen to "i feel like i am changin'" by cub sport whilst reading this chapter!

Oikawa is seventeen (and a half), and currently rebellious as hell. He’d already been scouted for Tokyo University for his athletic skills last month when he won the award for being the best setter in Miyagi prefecture, and admittedly, the young volleyball athlete has been neglecting his studies a little ever since. 

“Mum, I swear I studied for that maths test, it was just super hard.” 

“Iwaizumi’s mother told me he scored a hundred percent!” 

Oikawa sighs, his parents have been on his case ever since he received the scholarship letter from Tokyo University. Oikawa didn’t even need to supply his high school graduation GPA, had just been scouted for his pure talent, so he didn’t see any reason to neglect his training for school study anymore longer. 

“I told you mum, I did study, I’m just not cut out for maths.” 

“But you aren’t cut out for anything!” 

Dramatically rolling his eyes, the high schooler drops his legs from the dining chair beside his seat, sock clad feet sliding against the hardwood floors of dimly lit dining room, curtains wide open and stars gleaming inside, glinting against the glare of the thick windows. 

“Thank you, mother, for your encouragement. I’ll retire to bed now, I think.” 

Like the true gentleman he is, Oikawa takes all of the dirty dishes from the table to the kitchen counter mere metres away, giving them a quick but thorough rinse, and dropping them into the stainless steel sink. 

“Thank you for the delicious meal,” Oikawa mock salutes, back straight as he stands military-like in front of the fridge, before sliding down the corridor and taking the stairs up two at a time to his bedroom. 

Oikawa's room is uncharacteristically neat, and simple too. His parents have never allowed him to stick posters to the blank walls in his youth, something he is now grateful for, because his clean walls only add to the brooding, minimalistic feel he’s been trying to achieve ever since Iwa-chan ridiculed the abundant volleyball figures he used to have sitting above every shelf of his tall overstuffed bookshelf. 

There’s four lamps in the room, two situated on his wooden desk, another beside his window, and the last in the corner beside the walk-in wardrobe; all permanently switched on the second the sun goes down and Oikawa is back inside from the back garden practicing volleyball sets, and inside either doing his dreaded homework, or blissfully watching volleyball match reruns, or analysing his team’s performance. 

He’s halfway through watching a recording of today’s volleyball practice from school, film playing on the screen of his small television, when his father – a tall man of approximately fifty five years (Oikawa can’t really remember the last time he celebrated his father’s birthday properly, hence the reason the years get muddled since his father celebrated his fiftieth some years ago) with a strong nose sporting a tall arch, permanently glowering eyes, and eyebrows so thick and furrowed for so many years that Oikawa could be easily convinced he accidentally super glued his father’s eyebrows that way when he was a child, the old man unable to unglue them forever since – knocks heavily abreast the door, knuckles clanging so fiercely with the wood of the door that if Oikawa hadn’t heard the sound before, would think that perhaps it was not his father’ knuckles, but a hammer was what was being knocked against the door. 

“Boy, are you inside the room now?” 

“Yes, father.” Oikawa pauses the screen, picking up his notebook to record a few notes on Iwa-chan’s spike, when his father clambers through the door, pressed suit still on from work, permanent scowl unsurprisingly still on his face. 

“Your mother told me about your maths test. Surely you must know I am most unimpressed.” 

“Well, as I already said to mother, thank you very much for your concern, but I’m quite busy right now, you know, with the volleyball and all.” Oikawa doesn’t mean to snark, his subconscious knows it’s absolutely the wrong thing to do right now with his parents being so very cross with him right now, but he can’t help but push it that step further. Perhaps it’s his father’s glower egging him on, but anytime he sees his father’s face anymore, he can’t help but be reminded of the disappointment and anger directed at him from his parents when he sent in his acceptance letter to the scholarship offer from Tokyo University. 

“I refuse to have this conversation again Tooru, how many months will your mother and I have to survive through just to see you hardworking and successful? What will you do when you realise the reality of your frivolous dreams–?” 

“Frivolous? Sport is a career! What show do you watch every Saturday night? The football!” 

Oikawa’s father shakes his head. 

“In a few years, you will beg at my feet for a single chance to work for my company. All I want now is for you to promise me you will work hard and do much better in the next test, because I guarantee you over my grave, I will never offer you a job at my company.” 

“I won’t,” Oikawa’s voice cracks. 

Oikawa will admit, he has cried before, many times, into his pillow late into the night and early into the morning, into the calloused palms of his hands in the shower, into Iwa-chan’s shoulder, but never once before in front of his father. 

“You need to learn humility, boy!” 

Oikawa offers a miniscule head shake, tears dropping from his red cheeks into a fat puddle on the notebook sitting on his lap. 

“Then get out of my house, please. I will not have a degenerate living here.” 

In this one moment, Oikawa almost hallucinates seeing stars, bright and glinting, but he soon realises from the stinging in his cheek, that it’s just his father’s thick hand connecting with the boy’s reddened cheek. 

Falling from his swively desk chair, Oikawa recounts in his mind the moment he will never be able to speak of again without vomiting immediately, or at least, without feeling the burning sting of bile rising from the pool of acid inside his stomach and rising through his oesophagus, rising and rising and rising until it feels like it finally reaches the folded membrane of his brain, ending him there and then.

Or, to put it less dramatically, Oikawa just passes out.


	2. i could dance around the room, if you want me to

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen to "are you bored yet?" by wallows whilst reading this chapter! 
> 
> also pls comment if u like, feedback is my lifeblood!!!  
> +tysm for ur kudos  
> ++i have no idea how to do italics on this so apologies for the lack of italics!

Oikawa has, plenty of times before, been knocked out cold–or rather he has fainted quite embarrassingly a number of times on the volleyball court. However, scarcely, has Oikawa ever been backhanded by his own father so hard that he passes out so swiftly and so deeply, that for minutes after he awakes, he cannot even recall the time of day, where he is, or even what day of the week it is. 

A familiar throbbing sensation runs through his body, nerve endings working overtime to keep up with the amount of feeling Oikawa has spreading across his limbs, like a barrelling forward–moving train he is stuck to the front of speeding across endless train tracks. 

Parents be damned, Oikawa forces himself upright, hands propping up his weight from where they rest on the tatami mats spread out behind his back. 

How could he possibly remain here after this commotion? 

Iwaizumi often berates Oikawa for his one-track mindedness, for his stubborn disposition which often lands the young setter in irreversible trouble–and oftentimes, embarrassment. Regardless, Iwa-chan is always there, heavy hand hovering by his side, ready to slap his idiotic friend on the back to tell him to get up, because he knows Oikawa is strong and resilient and capable. 

Admittedly, on his deathbed Oikawa may whisper a confession of his stubbornness, but his denial has never stopped Iwaizumi once from sitting next to him every lunchtime, or for bailing him out of trouble with the teachers for his attitude, or for voting him for volleyball captain–because God, Oikawa does have his shortcomings, he is not daft enough so as not to realise that, but he is too so much more than just his attitude. 

Without so much as a phone call of warning, Oikawa throws on his volleyball captain jacket (a waterproof coat with lamb wool lining for the cold winter morning trainings), tosses a few loose change coins into the pocket of his shorts, and hurries downstairs to his bicycle down in the garage. 

The side door opens without much resistance despite the onslaught of wind, the darkening night sky threatening a sudden downpour of rain. 

Oikawa, sans his bicycle helmet, is nearly halfway to Iwa-chan’s house when he realises, he still doesn’t know what time of night it is exactly. 

Oikawa is just throwing down his bicycle onto the plush lawn of his best friend’s front yard (plush due to months of overgrowth, Iwaizumi’s father is seldom home and rarely gardens, if ever) when he propels himself forward against the front door, hands outstretched to shove open the familiar tall, wood frame. 

The inside of the home is as familiar as Oikawa’s own, towering staircase to the right of the front door, kitchen through the cut out in the left wall, lounge room straight ahead, so Oikawa casually strolls inside, ignoring the uncharacteristic silence of the otherwise usually loud home. 

Iwaizumi has a relatively large family, with two older brothers, and two younger sisters–Oikawa counts himself lucky he doesn’t have any siblings at all, save for a few older cousins living in Tokyo, because whilst the comforting sounds of constant chatter and laughter is fun whenever he is around, Oikawa is quite sure he would become severely agitated if he had to listen to it 24/7. 

Following the foyer rug into the spacious lounge, carpet dusted with the occasional stamp of an old muddy footprint haphazardly dabbed out of the pale fabric, Oikawa unzips his jacket, already sweaty from his hasty cycle over, before throwing the garment onto the closest couch, where it falls atop an uncharacteristically neat pile of thick textbooks and stacked papers, the darkness of the room making it impossible to read the titles of the oh so interesting tomes. 

Whilst Iwaizumi does possess an ungodly number of siblings, neither of his two brothers have yet, to Oikawa’s knowledge, returned home from their study abroad, nor his younger sisters old enough to even own textbooks that thick. 

Carefully picking his jacket up so as not to disturb the neatly stacked papers, Oikawa folds it neatly over the back of the floral-printed couch. 

“Iwa-chan! I’m here dumbass, come out and greet me.” 

Pacing the worn carpet, Oikawa has so many questions forming in his mind; like why is the house so freakily quiet (are the younger sisters at a sleepover and Iwa-chan’s parents out for the night?) and why does is there a fat stack of textbooks on the usually empty couch (did Iwa-chan finally take up Oikawa’s advice and consider stargazing?) but right now most heart-thumping and pressing is the matter of– 

WHO THE HELL IS STANDING IN THE HALLWAY STARING RIGHT AT OIKAWA?! 

Oikawa honestly can’t think of any reason for this, because this shadow is a good few inches taller than Iwa-chan, with boarder shoulders and thicker legs, and combined with his concussion, high blood pressure from cycling over so quickly, and now this apparition forming right in front of his tired eyes, Oikawa’s brain once again short circuits. 

The second Oikawa awakes this time, he doesn’t even bother opening his eyes or checking his surroundings. This whole fainting thing is becoming quite embarrassing, actually, definitely something to log in his volleyball journal–beware apparitions during matches for risk of fainting. 

“You know, it’s quite humiliating at this point,” Oikawa mumbles the second his tongue unsticks itself from the dry inside of his cheek, long eyelashes unclumping to hazily blink through the heaviness of his eyelids. 

The figure squatting beside him frowns, thick eyebrows drawing together in concern. 

“What is?” 

“Actually, I feel rather like Sleeping Beauty at this point–minus the kiss, of course–but wow, I sure am fainting so much lately.” 

“Really? Perhaps I should take you to the hospital then, if this is a recurring condition.” 

Oikawa splutters out a laugh. Who in the world is this guy? Because he certainly isn’t related to Iwa-chan, who hasn't a single funny bone in his entire body. Is this guy joking? 

“I’m alright, but thanks for your concern–wait, actually who even are you? Because you aren’t Iwa-chan,” 

“No, I’m certainly not.” 

Tilting his chin upwards in triumph, Oikawa, lips curled into a smug smile of sorts, dazedly throws his hand delicately over his forehead like a Victorian maiden. 

“I knew it!” 

“You speak and act like a child, yet you appear to be a classmate of Hajime. Would this assumption be correct?” 

“Precisely, so.”

“Well, get up then, seventeen-year olds shouldn’t be lying on the floor like children.” 

Oikawa huffs at the insult, argument with his parents forgotten–and for a brief moment, almost forgets that the person he is speaking so comfortably with is not Hajime, but in fact someone completely different. 

“So are you Iwa-chan’s brother?”

“Iwa-chan?” the elder rolls his eyes at the nickname. “Yes, of course I am, do we not look alike?” 

Oikawa blanches, short lived amusement dying quickly. 

Iwaizumi has a strong stature, height a few centimetres shorter than Oikawa, but thick, muscled biceps and calves making up for the lack in height tenfold–not that Oikawa has even noticed before, of course. The bridge of Iwaizumi’s nose is tall and wide, sharp eyes forever dulled with eternal annoyance at Oikawa, forever tired of his younger friend’s endless antics. Oikawa never really noticed his best friend’s lips before this year, because he always seemed to be that much shorter than Iwa-chan, eyes always glancing upwards to reach the elder’s, but since his late growth spurt, Oikawa seems to always be peering downwards to the lush, glistening lips Iwa-chan has a habit of biting. 

“Uh, I mean–like, your eyes, I guess?”

Iwaizumi’s older brother huffs out another laugh.

“Yes, our eyes are the same colour. Kind of a recurrence in our family, plain brown eyes are.” Something, inside of Oikawa, for a hot second, wants to rebut the elder’s claim, deny the words spoken, for the man’s eyes are anything plain–so very different from his younger brother’s eyes, glinting and mesmerising like the stars Oikawa so very much loves to watch on lonely nights from his bedroom window, flecks of lighter shades of caramel flickering in the dim light of the room, calling, as if enchanting Oikawa to come closer and have a better look–but his argument dies in his throat, coming out in a racket of hoarse coughs. 

“My apologies.” The elder says calmly, voice sounding not at all apologetic but rather monotone. “You just fainted and all I can do is tease you. Let me grab you some water.” 

Lying on the floor alone, the other’s heavy footsteps retreating and pattering back through the hallway and out into the kitchen, Oikawa realises that he still doesn’t know the time, nor the name of Iwaizumi’s eldest brother.


End file.
